


The Devil Has far More Wrath Than Hell Itself

by MarvelsMenace



Series: The Seven Sins of Matthew Murdock [5]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M, Matt fucks up shit, kicking names and taking ass, you dont mess with his boo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 03:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16468121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarvelsMenace/pseuds/MarvelsMenace
Summary: Matt is usually in control of his anger.  That all changes when he puts on the suit.





	The Devil Has far More Wrath Than Hell Itself

**Author's Note:**

> It's been ages since I've written anything like fighting, and I'm feeling it. Only two left to go, and one day till my goal of October 31st  
> Thanks for reading!

Somedays the heavy bag isn’t enough, the stinging of cracked and bleeding knuckles drowned in a sort of numbness of thoughts and rage.  Those are followed by dark nights of restoration, where Foggy strips him down to the skin before unraveling each piece of him until he reaches that raw center of what must be his soul before building him back up with his own strength and reassurances. 

The next days are long despite the good night’s sleep, the early morning interrupted with a kiss to his forehead before Foggy manages to slip out before the alarm.  It was one of those days where you get up and you know that you should stay in bed.  But Matt’s an up and coming lawyer with meetings, and clients, and calls that need to be made.  So, he tosses down a cup of coffee before he bothers getting dressed, the apartment cold and empty without Foggy’s warmth lighting up the corners.  He makes it to work amidst minor irritations that he has to ignore because he’s technically blind, and there for shouldn’t see the guy rolling his eyes when someone stops to let him cross before them. 

Work goes as expected, and he makes it half way through the day before the smell of burnt coffee makes him shut his office door, and his transcriber dies on him.  He’s almost proud of himself when he makes it out of the office without bloodshed, but at five on the fucking dot, eager to get home and get a few things done before Foggy returns from his day at court, he’s in his coat and out the door.  The idea of another warm body in his bed thrills him and he steps up the pace as much as he can get away with.

He stops to drop off mail on the walk back home, and after a second thought for groceries, caving for what the lady in the floral section described as a lovely fall bouquet.  It’s a subtle one, the floral scent soft and lacking the usual overwhelming wave that he usually finds with most flower arrangements.   

A block and a half from his apartment his phone begins yelling at him in its special way, and it only takes the first time the name is said before dread settles into his gut.  This is a number that doesn’t grace his phone often, and when it does, trouble usually comes to find him.  He steps off to the edge of the sidewalk as it continues to chime, back against a random storefront, pottery maybe, before he can place his bag at his feet and fish his phone out from the breast pocket inside his coat.

“ **Jessica, Jessica, Jessica**.”

“ _I know, I know._   Hello?”

“Are you home?”

Her voice is curt, as always, and Matt wonders if she’s like that when she beats up criminals.

“Hello to you too Miss Jones.”

His voice has a bite to it he immediately regrets, and he closes his eyes for patience, listening as the sound of uneven breathing carries over the line.

“Look, I wouldn’t take a tone.  I just saved your partners ass.”

“Partner?  Foggy’s at court and Karen is still at the office.”

She gives him a dry burst of laugher, and he zeroes in on the breathing, wills the heart on the other line to beat harder so he can pick it up.  No luck.

“The blonde on my arm says otherwise.  No clue what lead up to it, but I helped him out of a messy situation in an alley a few blocks from the courthouse.  We’re maybe two blocks out, I’ll meet you at your door.”

The line goes dead, and he swears, much to the irritation of passing new Yorkers, he fists a hand in his hair, trying to focus.  Okay, home.  _Get home_.  He walks as fast as he can truly get away with, the bag of groceries swinging heavy on his arm, the movement of his cane monotonous before him as he tries to put things right.  Foggy got hurt on his way back from Court.  Jessica was at the right place at the right time and was able to supply help.  Jessica was with Foggy.  They were on the way to his building, she is with him.  His breath came a bit easier as he listed the facts and regrouped.  Jessica seems to be fond of Foggy for some reason, and he likes to think that she’ll keep anything else from happening to him. 

He beats them to his building, and part of him is terrified of what that means for Foggy’s condition, but he bites down on the bile rising in the back of his throat, warns off the feeling of his dead father’s face beneath his hands.  The smell of them hits him before they even round the corner on the other side of the block, a whiff of whiskey from Jessica’s cool gunmetal.  Foggy’s smell immediately overpowers it, all familiarity washed below the sweat of fear and anger. 

By the time they reach him, Matt is honestly surprised his cane hasn’t snapped in his hands, as many times as people have asked him if he needs help into the building.  As soon as Jessica is at his side he has the door open, holding it for the shuffling of two bodies.  He knows she could carry Foggy easily if he was that bad off, so the fact that he is still walking reassures a part of him.

“Got an elevator?”

She doesn’t even sound out of breath, but Foggy is panting at her side, a whistle of air betraying a pained silence.

“We can use the service one.”

He goes to take Foggy’s other arm, only to leap back as if he had been burned as a gut clenching noise of pain leaves the man hunched beside Jessica.  His heart rate has spiked, and a new wave of sweat emerges on his brow as his gut churns.

“I think his shoulder is dislocated, but I didn’t want to deal with that on the street.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

Foggy’s gut makes a nauseas sort of noise, and Matt is only too familiar with that level of pain. The floor is empty save for the three of them, so he pockets his cane, jerking the metal screen out of the way with a screech and imputing the service code into the small device on the edge of the car.  His hands itch to touch Foggy, to reassure himself that he isn’t about to drop dead, he barely manages to keep his hands to himself. 

Foggy makes a small noise as the car jerks to a stop at his floor, and Matt’s focus goes into the next step of getting Foggy settled his apartment, thankful that he was somewhat in control of his faculties.  To any outsider exiting their apartment, he hopped they just looked like a couple of friends who had had too much to drink at happy hour after a long day at work. 

He only dropped his keys once trying to open the door, a bright iron smell lighting up his senses like blood in shark filled water.  It is blood he realizes bright and living over a heavy clotted smell.  Foggy snickers at his lack of grace, but the sound is weak.  He shepherds the other two into the apartment, so he can shut the door, already pulling out his phone and setting it on the bench under his coat hooks.  The clock in his kitchen chimes a soft seven o’clock. 

“You want him on the couch?”

Foggy is leaning on Jessica’s small form, feet unsteady, and Matt thinks for a moment before shaking his head.

“I want to set his shoulder, he’ll be more comfortable that way.”

“You know how to do that?”

His lips compress, and he nods to Foggy, taking off his own jacket and tossing it somewhere out of the way.

“Dad was a boxer remember.  His face wasn’t the only thing that took a beating.  Jessica, my phone is there.  Call Claire.”

She breathes like she wants to argue but must decide that a phone call is better than setting a shoulder.  Jessica retrieves the phone and he can hear the rhythmic click of the buttons as she finds the contact, halfheartedly ransacking his kitchen as a distraction.  He pulls his focus back to Foggy and slips off his suit coat, tossing it towards one of the chairs, not paying attention to whether or not it makes its mark.  He takes a deep breath, steeling himself as he loosens the tie on the man before him, unbuttoning his shirt for less restriction.

Matt probes gently at the shoulder, the left one, moving forward as Foggy tries to move back until he’s almost certain that he isn’t going to fuck anything up by resetting this himself. 

“Fogs I love you, but this is going to suck.  It’ll feel better as soon as it’s back in though.”

“Funny, I normally don’t hear that outside of the bedroom.”

The joke is breathy, but it steels him as he flinches under his touch, injuries seeming to appear at every touch.

Jessica must be paying attention because she drags a chair over from the kitchen, the ringing of a phone connection floating from her hand, he says a prayer hoping that Claire isn’t working tonight.  Matt settles Foggy into the chair and takes his arm, bending it at an angle, free hand probing along to check his work, that he’s got the right spot.

Jessica skips leaving a voicemail and calls again, the tone ringing twice before a voice full of irritation floats out.  Whenever he talks to Claire on the phone, there’s a large chance that she’s going to be irritated, already preparing to patch one of them up.  There’s a tightness in her voice when she speaks, the tinny sound of any phone call waiting at the edges.   Warning is painted over anger when she speaks, not giving anyone chance to get a word in over her first.

“This better be good.”

“Matt’s lawyer friend Foggy got roughed up pretty bad down by the courthouse.  Matt is working on getting him settled, but I’m pretty sure this is a situation for back up.”

It takes her three beats of Foggy’s heart before she answers, surprise at hearing Jessica instead of him he guesses, and he hears voices in the back.  She’s out somewhere, hopefully closer than her usual visits with Luke in Harlem.  Claire sighs, and Matt knows the sound of defeat all too well

“I guess Date night is over, I’m on my way with Luke.  Tell Matt that his ass does not leave his side until I can get there and make sure that we don’t need to take this to the hospital.  I want him keeping an ear on the heart rate and his breathing.”

Matt nods, and with a quick movement jerk’s the ball of Foggy’s shoulder into the socket, the pop audible and near echoing in the silence of the loft.  Foggy makes a choked of half scream and gasps, swallowing thickly as he bends forward to press his head between his knees.  Matt keeps a hand on him, rubbing circles at his back as Claire’s voice rings out from the kitchen

“What the hell was that?”

“Murdock resetting a dislocated shoulder.”

“What?  Why wouldn’t he wait?”

“I want him to be comfortable.”

There’s an eye roll again from Jessica before she relays the message.

“He wants him to be comfortable.”

“Oh my God.  Matthew.  I know you can hear me.  No more medical treatment until I am there.”

He nods.

“He nodded.”

“Damn right.  Get Foggy on the couch, did he hit his head?”

“There’s blood in his hair.”

Sure enough after a bit of gentle probing Matt finds the spot in question, a split in the skin lazily leaking blood.

“ _Great_.  Be there soon.”

Matt makes a noise of affirmation, standing as Foggy sits up, and helping him stand.  They walk slowly to the couch, Matt settling with his legs crossed, and his back straight before Foggy stretches out on his back, head in Matt’s lap.

“Luke is coming and you’re his lawyer.  You have to act professional.”

Foggy makes a noise.

“That’s what you’re going with?  Didn’t Claire fish you out of a dumpster once?”

“Yes, but we both know I’m a human disaster, so that’s old news.”

Foggy rolls his eyes below him.  There’s a burst of alcoholic fumes from the kitchen and he turns at the burn. 

“Want a hit Murdock?  You’re looking a bit pale.”

He can hear the liquid sloshing in the bottle, the crinkle of the label from where her hand grips it.

“I’m good.  Take the bottle if you want though, for my thanks.”

“Heart of gold you got there.”

“Heart of something.”  Foggy mumbles below him.

Jessica goes up to the roof, curious of his usual vantage point he guesses, maybe watching for anything suspicious.  Internally Matt is freaking, more so now that Claire is on her way, but he knows that if he begins to externally, then Foggy will only become more on edge, so he shoves it to the back to his mind, running fingers through Foggy’s hair to remove drying blood, heart squeezing as he leans into the touch.  He can’t drink, because if he does, he can’t go out later, and if he can’t go out later, he can’t track down whoever did this.  Foggy is still in his lap, breathing even, forcing Matt to palm his cheeks gently when he doesn’t respond to his name.

“No sleeping, you know that’s a rule with head wounds.  Tell me what happened.”

He makes a tired sort of noise below him, becoming annoyed when Matt begins to wiggle his knees, jostling him gently.

“I’ll tell you when Claire gets here, she’ll just make me tell her again anyways.  My throat hurts.”

As true as that is, needs Foggy awake, all too familiar with a concussion, of the results that could come from it.  A gentle touch tells him Foggy’s throat is likely bruised, broken blood vessels and too warm skin smooth under his fingers.  Matt grits his teeth, steeling himself against those images of what could happen flashing in his hand until a warm hand finds his cheek, tilting him down until he’s taken into a soft kiss. 

They occupy themselves with that for a short time until Foggy asks how the appointments went for the day, and nearly forty-five minutes span that he blames the size of New York for, gentle touches of reassurance spread out until Matt’s hearing picks up a pair of familiar gaits entering the building.  Luke cage’s is like a wrecking ball hitting brick, heavy and solid, strong against the sure and steady clip of Claire’s.  She’s wearing heels, walking on the ball of her foot with a narrow noise of a stiletto right behind.  Jessica is back inside not long after they enter the building, waiting at the door and opening it before a single knock can fall on it.  She must have seen them come in. 

Jessica Jones leaves with her newly acquired bottle of whiskey and little other ceremony after ushering in the newcomers, apparently waiting to pass the baton of watch over to some other bastard.  Though she does tell Foggy to get well soon, which was nice.  Luke and Claire come in to take up her place, locking the door behind them, a plastic sort of rustle follows them in and he hears Luke set something on the counter in the kitchen before coming to pat him on the shoulder with a massive hand. 

Claire takes a breath that’s all shock, and for all of his enhanced senses, he can’t see anything, can’t tell anything aside from that there’s bruising, fresh blood, and dried sweat.  Luke starts shoving the coffee table out of the way, shit, he should have done that, making space for Claire to kneel beside the couch.

“I don’t know how you boys do it.  Jones is never this worse for wear.”

“Miss Jones also has a bit of an edge with her enhancements.”

Matt wonders how bad Foggy looks.  He can smell the sluggish, dulled smell of clotting blood, salt from what must be dried tears, the earthy smell of brick and with it, mortar on his clothing with the sticky and mechanical smell of motor oil .  There’s a scent on his hand, probably under his nails from where he scrambled at his attackers and Matt takes a thick breath, memorizing the smell of cheap detergent, and incense, patchouli if he had to be specific, all painted over the baked in smell of greasy food from Chinatown. 

“Is your kit stocked?”

Matt moves to get out from under Foggy’s head, but a grip on his slacks stop him.  He relaxes, hand smoothing Foggy’s hair back from his face.

“Yeah.  It’s in my bathroom, in the linen closet.  Bottom shelf.

It’s a large sort of tackle box Foggy had gotten to hold all the medical supplies when he had seen Matt’s less than impressive plastic box of unorganized shit that he had been using.  Luke moves to collect it, there and back within a few heart beats time.  He sets it on the coffee table, Matt listening as she pulls out the various drawers until she finds what she’s looking for.  There’s the click of a flashlight before Foggy’s irritated grumble rises from his chest.

“You know if you blind me too, you’ll be patching Matt up even more than usual.”

Claire laughs, and Luke shakes his head from where he’s standing, probably taking in the monstrosity of a billboard everyone tells him about.

“I know Nelson, show me you can behave better than your boyfriend and I’ll give you the dessert we got to go.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You’re such a sellout Fogs.”

In all honesty, Matt knows Foggy’s top three weaknesses, those being Matt, sweets, and good Italian espresso, their order usually rotating depending on his mood.  He already had Matt where he wanted, dessert was a bonus.

The flashlight is turned off with another click, and Foggy’s head turns in his lap as Claire moves him, a small thoughtful noise mulling in her mouth as she continues looking him over.  Foggy makes a pained noise as her fingers brush his chest, and there’s a slip of noise at buttons sliding through button holes.  His breathing changes as she pokes and prods what must be tender flesh, and Matt remembers being on that side of Claire’s nursing hands.  She feels down his hands, and he jumps like they all do at the sudden yelp of pain Foggy makes when she takes his left hand.

“That’s the side I fixed before you got here.”

His heart rate spikes, and he can smell salt as fresh tears bloom, but they don’t fall.  Claire finishes working her way down his body until Foggy makes a startled noise and stops her at his belt.  He has to clear his throat to speak, voice tight with pain.

“I’m perfectly fine under there Miss Temple.  Perfect working order.”

Matt thinks he’s looking at Luke with a bit of alarm, the large man chuckling with a warmth that makes Matt feel a little less scared.

“Call me Claire, I know I’ve told you that more than once.”

“Miss Claire.”

“Better.  You’re going to need a few stitches, but I don’t think we need to worry about a concussion at least.”

Matt can tell there’s something else, knows it with the way her heart is pounding, her deep breaths as she tries to formulate a plan of attack for what needs to be done.

“What else.”

His voice is short, worry shining through like a spot light.  There’s no question in his tone, all demand.  He thinks she may be leveling a glare at him but isn’t sure.

“His left hand is pretty bad.  No breaks, but two of the four fingers have been dislocated.  The top joint of the thumb too.”

Matt hadn’t touched below his forearm when he was fixing his shoulder, kicks himself for not checking Foggy over himself.  She’s quiet, mind churning in a way that he can easily tell she’s thinking.

“I think I have a small splint set in there.  I just bought whatever the guy put in my bag.”

“We can reset the joints and splint them with tape against the other fingers.  He’s going to be black and blue from the waist up.  You’ve got a bruised collar bone, but I don’t feel anything that makes me think a break could be involved.”

Claire sighs, weary.

“Any adrenaline you would have had going for you is going to be long gone by now.  The head wound is the first step with stitches, then the hand.  I want to brace the wrist, but you really need to keep the scrapes clean and there shouldn’t be any real complications beyond that.”

Matt’s voice is thick when he speaks, rubbing a lock of soft hair between thumb and index finger.  His other hand is below Foggy, rubbing at the soft skin of his neck.

“How many stitches?  Does he need to go to the hospital, just to be sure?”

Foggy stills his hand, grip firm and sure with just the edge of a tremor.  Matt hates hospitals, and Foggy remembers the last time he was in one. 

“Probably five or so, and I don’t think a hospital is necessary.  You’ve been patched up in my living room in worse shape than this.”

Luke’s voice is a rumble when he speaks, all gentle ribbing.

“Is that what the blood stain on the underside of the couch cushion is?”

Claire ignores this with a deflective noise, only acknowledging Foggy.

 “You’re going to be very sore tomorrow.  You ever been in a nasty car wreck?  Like that but without the car.  Working from home might not be a bad idea.”

There’s a bite in his sinuses as she opens a bottle of alcohol, the click of a cap as she finds the iodine.  Matt had invested in prepackaged suture packs not too long ago, little packs of plastic that held threaded and sterile suture ready needles.  She rips one of these open, abandoning it on the table to retrieve a pair of hemostats.

Before Matt can open his mouth, Foggy is speaking, his court voice clear in the fact that this was not up for debate.

“I have court tomorrow, the case that these idiots are probably involved with.  I don’t care if it makes me an hour to get in the building, I’m not going to look like I’m giving in.”

“Fogs-”

“No Matt.  You can come to court with me if you want, hell, wear the suit if you feel the need, but I’m going either way.”

Claire makes a small noise of amusement as she puts on a sterile pair of gloves, the scent of his own shampoo rising in the air after she moved Foggy’s hair across his lap, as out of the way as it could get.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened Foggy, it’ll help distract you since your boyfriend can’t invest in pain medication.  Catholic guilt only numbs certain people.”

Matt sputters as Foggy’s body shakes with laughter.

“You need proof of license, I tried.  Blind man’s guilt wouldn’t even work, because they just think you’re a blind addict!”

She shakes her head, settling until she’s comfortable before taking up the needle with a barely audible click.  She makes some motion at Foggy to start talking, and he can hear him swallow thickly. 

“I was walking back to the office after court, it was just the initial hearing today, so only preliminary statements, laying out the case, introducing the parties with the jury.  But Nelson and Murdock is starting to pick up some recognition, people are noticing how stubborn we can be when we take on a case.  We went through the usual motions, and then it was time to go home. 

He can tell when Claire starts stitching as easily as if he could see.  Foggy’s hand takes a vice like grip on his own, and his heart spikes on a beat before Matt sooths him, taking his uninjured hand between the two of his.  There’s a bite of iron in the air, bright against the heavy scents of antiseptics, and he must make a noise because Claire laughs, shaking her head and stirring up the smell of her perfume.

“That nose.  Should have just called you crazy the first time we met and let you sleep it off in the dumpster.”

“Hey now, I saved the people in the building from that creep.”

“You brought that creep and his gross cologne to the building.”

“Details.”

Foggy can’t say he’s at all surprised that that is how Matt met Claire, and says as much, laughing as she rolls her eyes.

“Tell us what happened.”

“I was walking past an alley like every other new Yorker, don’t look at me like that Matt, this city is half alleys, I can’t avoid them all.”

Matt makes a noise, pointing his face to the windows with a sniff.

“Someone jerked me in, I think everyone else walking past thought I tripped or something, or it was the usual peripheral blindness.  I landed on my front, and some jackbooted thug stepped on my hand, while another kept me down.  I jacked up my shoulder trying to get out from under them.  They picked me up after that, shoved me against the wall, made sure I hit my head, and told me to back off, drop the case.”

Foggy started trembling, whether he noticed or not, Matt didn’t know, but he rubbed his fingers on the back of his hand, his other leaving its grip to squeeze his shoulder in comfort.

“They got a couple of hits in before I got a lucky kick in and got one off of me.  I probably would have been worse off, but Miss Jones, I mean Jessica.  She was walking by, I think work stuff because she had her camera.  She pitched some guy into a pile of trash cans and they all scattered like fucking rats.  She helped me to my feet and called Matt.  We limped our way back here and they called you.”

It takes an hour and twenty-three minutes, including breaks of for the sake of sanity, for Claire to get Foggy all taken care of.  Fingers put back in order, then splinted, braces found, and slings crafted and sorted for the morning.  Matt is sure that the time was doubled and will be removed from his life span forever.  His own pain he can handle, can push it out of the way and focus.  But anyone else, anyone he cares about, could have helped, it’s like a brand searing itself into his heart.

Luke follows him into the kitchen as he sets about rummaging for peas in the freezer, low bass of a voice barely a whisper, though he knows Matt can hear him.

“Jess sent me details.  There was a van in the alley, she grabbed a shot of the plates before they took off and did some digging.  She was able to untangle an address.  Apparently, this isn’t the first time this has happened to a lawyer that they’ve been going up against.”

Matt makes a noise, close to a growl, and the peas rustle in their frozen prison when he digs them out from the back of the appliance, shaking them to confirm that they are in fact peas and not something lumpy like broccoli .  He nods at Luke to continue and listens as he passes them off to Claire.  She’s onto them, he knows it, but doesn’t say anything, just continues talking to Foggy about how life has been, about how much he’s helped them. 

“They’re up at the north east edges of the kitchen, small gang number wise, but word is they’ve got a solid foothold in a neighborhood.  People lay low to avoid trouble.”

Matt nods, sighing.  He doesn’t want to leave, but the next time this happens, the lawyer, whoever it is, might not have someone to step in for them, they might not walk out of that alley.

“Thanks for the tip.  Tell Jess I said thanks again, and that I hope she makes the bottle last.”

He gets Foggy into the shower fairly easy, all clinical and so different from their usual showers full of laughter and wandering hands.  He helps him dress in a pair of worn sweat pants sans shirt with his tender shirt and warms him under the covers.  He slips out of bed almost thirty minutes later when his heartbeat slows to the lazy pace of sleep with the assistance of some over the counter medications, padding out to where Claire and Luke are sitting quietly.

“I can’t thank you enough, really.”

Claire makes some sort of motion, but he misses it in a lack of attention.

“He squirms more than you do, but he’s a good guy.  We’re kind of a fan.  He’s good for you.”

Matt ducks his head with a smile, hiding a blush he can find rising while he scrubs a hand through his hair. 

“If I can convince you to stay, there’s a nice bottle of wine in the fridge, you guys are more than welcome to it.”

Matt doesn’t have to go, but God does he want to.  The sooner this is out of the picture, the sooner he can rest easy with Foggy at his side.

“And where did you plan on going Saint Matthew?”

He winces at the nickname but knows better than to try to lie.

“I’m going to take care of the thugs who beat up lawyers who are just doing their jobs.”

Luke speaks up this time, genuinely curious.

“You want back up?”

He considers it for a moment before shaking his head.

“No.  Thank you, but no.  It adds another factor to take in and process.”

“Fair enough.”

The couple has some sort of silent conversation that he actually can’t decipher, he thinks it’s probably involving the eyes.  Details.

“I swear, you come back worse than he is, I’m not fixing you.”

“Done.”

He can feel their eyes on him as he hauls the trunk out, the scrape of the thing over the wood floors a buzz in his ears.  Matt leaves the boots by the couch and carries the bundle of gear into the bathroom, treading quietly and dressing in the dark.  His blood is all but roaring as he exits the bedroom, stepping in and fastening each boot in turn.

“So happy you finally hung up those black pajamas.”

“Yes, thank you for your input Miss Temple.  There’s extra blankets in the linen closet if you get too cold.  I’m afraid the heater is fussy.”

He takes the steps two at a time and closes the door on her quiet laughter.  He’s out on the roof then and heaving in a lung full of air that he didn’t know he needed.  Jess had sent an address to Luke, who had let him know, there by removing any evidence of this shit show from his person and property should Foggy decide to snoop in his phone for nefarious Daredevil things.

He hadn’t been out in a few nights, and it takes a few blocks for him to loosen up, to let his senses and their near autopilot take over.  The devil in him screams as he runs and climbs, howling in his veins, leaping, and snapping like a savage beast that has finally been freed of its chain.  It takes him little time to reach the block in question, and he set out a perimeter almost instantly, the clawing stench of patchouli drifting thick and heavy from somewhere in the tangle of apartments and businesses.  A quick leap, and he found the source, a storefront of unknown products serving a face for some sort of operation. 

It’s still early for this kind of work, a clock in the city ringing out bells to the count of eleven before the city version of silence returns to him.  Whatever operation was running this had taken the store room and apartments above and gutted them from what he could tell, turning a maze of rooms into channel like spaces all connected by split level stair cases.  There were eighteen men total, six bodies on each floor, with the bastard who had hurt Foggy walking amidst the human forms of his radar like a scurrying roach. 

Matt stalks across the roof of the building across the street, pacing like a caged wolf, monitoring movement.  Nobody came or went, low voices talked about insignificant things until a phone call on the top floor piqued his interest.  The thing rattled on a surface as it rang, an ancient sort of phone that still had buttons and probably flipped. 

“Hey Boss.”  A beat of silence.  “Staying quiet for the rest of the night, we got the lawyer roughed up before some bitch interrupted us.  Don’t want to risk anything coming up with the courts tomorrow by looking for him.  Everyone’s in house tonight.”

He can’t pick out the voice on the other line, it’s a burner phone with shitty signal and too much interference from the surrounding buildings, but this idiot seems to have enough details for him.  He’ll enjoy explaining how he knew their weaknesses from his open window.  Matt almost wants to start with him, take them down from the top.  But the fear that will grow with the sounds of carnage is too much to pass up. 

“Well with records they got, none of the boys can come up and stand, so we’ll have ears here tomorrow.”

So that means none of them are due to appear in court, leaving him free reign on their lack luster operation.  They won’t be missed.  The more this guy talks, the louder the devil roars in his ears, a fury demanding retribution for the harm that came to what was and is _his_.  He almost wants to go through the window and take the phone himself, but he knows that this can play back to the court if he isn’t careful. 

Matt hops down a fire escape in a fluid movement, landing amongst scattered trash across from the false store front.  The buzz of street lights is quiet here, and he wonders if it’s always this numb, the air swollen with the taste of fear.  How long have the residents here been scared, or beat, into submission?

````

Matt is only gone an hour before Foggy rolls over to a distinct lack of Matt in the bed.  His mouth is dry, so he shuffles out to the kitchen for a glass of water, stopping to sort of squint at the picture of Luke and Claire curled up on the soft leather of the chair before he continues with his mission.  He’s got half a glass down before he leans against the counter with his good arm, body aching despite the pain meds that should be starting to help by now.

“Let me guess, he left.”

Claire turns to fold her arms on the back of the couch, rolling her eyes.

“He’s defending your honor.”

Luke makes what sounds very similar to a snort from his seat beside her.  Foggy tucks into the bag he was promised and is surprisingly okay with the slice of chocolate cake, only a thin line of guilt stinging with the first bite.

“Did he say that?”

“In his own words.”

“We all know he’s just pissing on me, eliminating something that tried to take what’s his.”

Foggy makes a skeptical noise in the back of his throat as he stabs for another bite of cake.  Claire joins him in the kitchen, and he figures Matt must have passed along that bottle of wine they were going to have with dinner that night until this shit storm happened.  He watches as she pours two glasses, and pouts when she slides them away from him.

“No alcohol with pain medication.”

“Is that how you pay superhero doctors?  Wine and favors?”

Luke laughs at that as he makes room for Claire beside him, and she shakes her head, the dark waves of her hair falling down her back.

“It certainly feels like it.  Rand offered to buy me a building once.  Not sure I ever said no to be honest.”

They talk about stupid heroes, _despite Luke’s protests of I’m sitting right here_ , of current storms in the city, what the Avengers destroyed this week, everything until his cake is gone and he’s yawning.  Claire bustles him off to bed with gently hands and tucks him in with a pillow in what is usually Matt’s spot.

“We’re going to nap on the couch until Hornhead gets back.  I’ve got an alarm so if he isn’t back by a certain time, Luke will go get him.”

Foggy figures that’s a better plan than what he had, which was nothing, and snuggles into the smell of Matt against the blankets.

\------

Daredevil all but slinks across the abandoned street, pressing his fingers to the glass of the door as he reaches it.  It is still and quiet, missing the electrical whine of most security systems and the rattle of heavy locks that settle with the ancient brick of these types of buildings.  He takes a small breath, focusing on this floor above everything else.  One male acting as a poor excuse for a guard is in the front room, breath heavy and slow, most likely asleep, three more are playing a hand of what sounds like cards while the last two are smoking at the open back door. 

After feeling down the cheap metal edge a few times, he hits the end of a club against a weak spot in the door frame, upsetting the mostly useless lock from its niche.  No alarms sound, nobody comes rushing in, and Matt thinks that on the matter of fear as a tool for security, absolutely useless once an outsider gets involved. 

He moves in silently, and it takes one strike to knock the “guard” into a state of unconsciousness, easing him out of the plain chair he was in to minimize the risk of him making a racket while falling out of it.  He’s armed, but only with a simple fire arm and a sizable knife.  Matt pockets the latter should he get into trouble, well more trouble than what he thinks this will lead to.

There’s the sound of plastic chips being tossed onto a plastic table, and he listens closer, keeping to the shadows until the next hand is dealt.  Their focus is on the cards, the one closest to the door is going to lose his bet he thinks by the way his heart has picked up.  Without his sight, it’s a guessing game as to if they are all thoroughly engrossed in the game, but he takes a chance, stepping into the doorway just long enough for his scarlet visage to be spotted before he tosses one of his clubs at the light over the table and plunges the room into darkness.  There’s a yell, and the sound of bodies crashing into brittle furniture, the air turning sour as a pile of empty beer cans is disturbed in the scuffle. 

The Devil makes a grab and pulls a body from the tangle of confusion cutting off the scream of terror with a quick punch to the mouth before he takes a stray blow to the side.  It’s glancing, but still smarts beneath the armor, and he lashes out, connecting a knee with the softness of unguarded stomach, foot colliding with skull after the body hits the floor.

 _Two out of six_.  One of the bodies is slammed against the heavy back door, bones grinding in protest beneath his hands as he slams again and again before connecting against what must be a cheekbone with a gloved fist.  The body drops, but he’s overcome from behind by one of the remaining trio, he takes the beating doled out, puts on a front of injury before he lashes out to sweep them off their feet.  The devil makes a wild grab, coming to grasp the back of a wooden chair.  He swings it up without a thought, bringing it crashing down with all that he can manage on his attacker.  The last one is dispatched into unconsciousness with little trouble, and Matt takes a moment to catch his breath before the next wave comes for him. 

```

They take their time with the wine, enjoying the silence in the horrid pastel glow of the light outside of the loft.  It’s nice though, and Claire wonders briefly if Matt has done some sound proofing.  Probably not though, too in tuned with the city to risk muffling any cries for help.    Luke finished his glass before her and seems fairly content dozing with his head on the back of the sofa.  She sips at the wine quietly beside him and says a small prayer for saint Matthew and his devil.

````  

The screams from below have drawn attention from above, and he moves to the base of the staircase in the next room, hiding in the shadows beneath before a door from the next floor up slams open and a panicked staccato of breathing enters the stairway.  A sacrificial lamb.  Fitting.  He lets the man get half way down the stairs before he reveals himself, lets him scream as the cheap florescent bulbs flicker overhead before he sends one of his clubs flying to connect with the bone of his brow beneath thin skin.  He takes out three others this way, humored as they come into the tight space like cattle for slaughter, one after the other.  These guys are used to being the ones attacking, and now that they are on the other side, they are uncoordinated and useless.   

Something stops him as the next body crashes through into the stair case, this time armed with a pistol he holds in two shaking hands.  Sweat is blooming at his brow, and he shouts something, but it’s distorted between the echo of the passage and the roaring in his ears because he can smell Foggy on this man, knows instantly that he is one, unless there are more, but the thug who beat up a lawyer doing his job.  Matt can feel that monstrous part of him clawing at the back of his throat like rising bile and something snaps. 

The stink of fear is only a catalyst as he picks up the smell of Foggy’s own scent beside his detergent on this man’s hands, a stray hair tangled in the laces of his boots lighting up under Matt’s senses.  It rips any lingering control he was managing to hold onto from his hands in a firestorm of rage that swallows his consciousness and takes hold of his body.  The man comes down a step too far and the Devil is flying at him with a roar, out for blood as the raw scent of urine and terror fills the air.

They tumble over the pile of prone bodies lining the stairs, grappling and clawing at each other.  Matt makes a lucky grab for the gun and seizes it just before the man’s thumb finds the trigger again, and he jerks it away with just force he can hear the bones break in the thumb and index fingers of his hold.  The devil tosses the gun away, striking out savagely with everything he can hit him with until he has him pinned against the back of an unconscious man on the floor, fists connecting with hard bone as he targets the face.  The man is limp in his hands all too soon, the smell of blood is sticky in his nose, seeping from the man below and painting his hands. 

Matt forces himself to leave the man, but not before delivering a savage kick to his ribs that deals enough damage to stem some of the rage.  The bodies make it a bit difficult to ascend the stair case, but he makes it with careful feet, listening at the door.  The last one from this floor has gone upstairs to alert the man with the phone.  He can hear him pacing overhead, his heart jumping in his chest as he tells them that the devil has come for them.

He cracks a window at the face of the building and exits silently.  There’s dew collecting on the fire escape, but he takes it slowly, ears taking in everything from the room above until he is just outside of the window he had noted from his place on the other side of the street.  If this building wasn’t connected with others, he’d be tempted to torch the operation. 

As it is, he settles for striking as much fear as he can in them and plans to enjoy it thoroughly. 

His club breaks through the glass with minor resistance, and the shards rain onto the floor as he climbs through, catching the remaining thugs at their backs as they waited for him at the door.  The man from the phone conversation, the boss for the moment, backs himself into a corner, and Matt is okay with that.  He wants to savor the coming conversation.

He can pinpoint the moment when the lesser men try to take the stairs, met with the unconscious bodies of their team mates, laying in seeping blood and other unsavory fluids.  He’s waiting for them when they come running back, tripping the first two with a boot before landing a punch to the teeth on the next one through that has him crumbling enough for the Devil to deal out a blow to the back of his head.  A shirt collar gives him enough leverage to rain a series of blows on one of the men on the floor, splitting skin and cracking bone nothing but white noise in his rage.  The remaining goon has passed out in fear before he can do any real damage, so he levels his gaze on the man in the corner.

He’s trying to use a desk for protection, something heavy and artificial that groans when Matt kicks it to the side.  He’s small and weasel like, with little muscle that Matt knows won’t be much in a fight.  Why have muscle when your boss supplies it for you?  There’s the residual tang of gunpower, but it’s from passing.  He’s unarmed. 

The devil takes him by his shirt front, dragging him bodily before shoving him into the rickety office chair at the back of the desk, bracketing him in with his hands on the arm rests.

“ _Who are you?_ ” 

It’s not so much a question, but a demand.  One that has the man before him tremble enough to rattle the chair.

“Whatever you want, money, drugs, we have it.  I’ll give it to you”

He backhands the man, feeling nothing as the armor takes the impact, dull vibrations brushing against the back of his hand as the strike abrades the skin of the other.

“ _Not the answer I want.  Do I need to ask again?_ ”’

His voice is like gravel, some of it the personal, some of from the fighting.  He pulls out the knife he acquired earlier, turning it in his non-dominant hand. 

“ _Tony!  I-It’s tony, please don’t hurt me please._ ”

A bark of a laugh leaves him, dry and bitter. 

“ _You know, I bet people say that to you all the time.  I need more of a name Tony._ ”

His breath is coming in short pants, and part of him wonders if he’ll hyperventilate. 

“ _Anthony "no not that one" Stark._ ”

He’s still for a moment before backhands him for the stupidity that he just had to listen to.  This asshole wasn’t the one who touched Foggy, and part of him is disappointed about that, but he’s still a dick, still in charge of ordering these piles of scum that are tainting his corner of the city.  Preying on the weak to make sure the law falls in their favor.

“ _I want to know everything_.” 

The devil only half cares about it all.  The knife turned in his hand again, and he touches the tip to the hollow under the man’s jaw, lets him feel how steady his hand is.  He makes note of every location the guy spills, every name, every business but really, he’s just letting him think he’s going to get out of this without any more trouble. 

He turns the knife around, lets the man have his sigh of relief before he brings the solid hilt down on the flesh and bone separating metal from the wooden arm of the chair.  The noise that follows is grating, the tearing crush of wet tissue and shattering bone as he hits the meaty center of his hand. 

The shitty burner phone rings on the surface of the desk as the man screams with agony, the electric tone shrill in his ears.  He leans back enough to grab it and flips it open with his free hand, knife poised for another blow over the barely muffled howls of the man in front of him. 

“ _I’m sorry, but your colleague is unable to come to the phone right now.  He’s got a meeting with the devil._ ”

It’s dramatic and unnecessary but the noise of alarm that crawls from the speaker is enough to sooth his second thoughts.

“ _If I hear about any other lawyers being attacked in alleys in my city again.  I’ll pay you a visit myself_.”

He snaps the phone shut and strikes the man on the head with the hilt of the knife, satisfied as his body slumps in the chair and falls to the floor in a heap. 

Mathew Murdock will feel guilty later when the devil releases his hold on him, maybe in the morning, maybe in a month, but he will feel the guilt eventually.  When the papers have waxed poetic articles and most likely stark photos of the carnage he has left behind amidst the labored breathing of these men, evil ones, but still men, who wheeze the breath of unconsciousness.  All a gift from the devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

He’s within enough of himself that he remembers his rule, the practice he will keep until his final breath as the devil.  That isn’t to say he doesn’t make them an example.  He sets his stage first, scouting the floors for anything to bind them with, supplying a punch where needed to reintroduce them to unconsciousness. 

He leaves a chain of their prone forms bound wrist to ankle on each level, tossing one or two of the lighter bodies onto each level of the fire escape to draw enough attention for a full investigation.  The store front is difficult but leaving three of the unconscious bodies in a pile on the dry rotting display dais in the window will draw enough attention for the police to truly get invested. 

The burner phone is used to call the police, and he escapes through the window as soon as he hangs up, leaping down and vaulting across the street until he’s far enough that the lights won’t pick him up. 

It takes five minutes of standing on the roof two buildings over before he hears the sirens, two more before the cars fill the street and the request for more cars and transport vehicles is voiced over the radio.  The commotion wakes the neighbors, the tenants, and there are cries of woken babies and barking dogs.  But among the noise are the hopeful voices of those now free from the oppression they were living under, speculation that they may be able to afford real food this week after being freed from false protection.

The trip home is uneventful, a possible mugging stopped with one step in the attacker’s direction and the surrender of the stolen items.  Matt makes sure the victim is stable before ducking into an alley and scaling his way back to the roofs.  He’s sweat coated and dirty by the time he gets home despite the cool air, and he lets himself in and onto the staircase before he removes his helmet.

Claire and Luke are asleep on the couch, so he shuts the lights off and heads into the bathroom. He strips in the darkness and showers without fully being aware of it, tossing the armor into the shower after he’s done to be scrubbed down in the morning.  It reeks, but he doesn’t have it in him tonight, and doesn’t want to risk waking the others. 

He double checks that the doors are locked before he climbs into bed, wrestling his pillow back from Foggy before the other burrows into the space under his jaw with a sigh of contentment.  He’s got about three hours until Foggy’s alarms go off, though he knows he probably won’t sleep, he’s content right where he is.

```

Sometimes Matt almost wishes that Foggy was worried about his sins sometimes, wishes he was more invested with the destruction of his soul after death, not to say that he isn’t entirely, but his feelings are nowhere near the catholic guilt Matt submerges himself in almost daily.  It’s probably for the best though, because the amount of wrath he comes into consciousness to with the blaring of Foggy’s alarms must rival that of God himself when he decided to cleanse the earth with the great flood.  Foggy is already up and moving, kind enough to leave his phone and its multiple alarms on the bed. 

“You think you can just sneak back in here?  You’re an ass and you left!  I can read the fucking news, did you not think it would show up?” 

Foggy is pretty thankful for Matt’s lack of vision, because his intimidation would be knocked down a few pegs if Matt could actually see him trying to tie a tie with his fucked fingers.  He manages it on the third try and tightens the knot as Matt exits the bathroom in nothing but suit pants and his toothbrush sticking out of his mouth.  He tries to talk around it but it’s pretty much useless, so Foggy abandons him to start coffee.  He gives Matt the shitty beans because he’s petty.

Foggy is working on his cup when Matt shuffles out from the bedroom, dressed in his finest lawyer ware save from his always crooked tie.  There’s a fondness when he fixes it for his vigilante, and he smirks when Matt takes a sip from his coffee, nearly spitting it out as it registers on his taste buds.

“Now that’s just cruel.”

“What’s cruel is leaving me to go get yourself beat up for some shitty revenge.”

Matt sighs and grimaces his way through another pull of caffeine.  He’s been worse for wear, but they’ll certainly draw attention in the courts this morning.  Hopefully though, people won’t suspect domestic abuse since they’re both beat to hell.

“Foggy, you aren’t the first guy these people have gone after.  I couldn’t let them get away with it anymore.”

“I’m not some damsel that needs to be avenged.  Are you going to start beating up people who hurt my feelings?”

It takes a minute for him to decide and answer.  Its long enough that Foggy can notice the shadow of a blooming bruise a Matt’s jaw, can really take in how his gait is a bit more cautious his morning.  Idiot.

“Only if they make you cry.”

“Oh my God Matt!”

Foggy can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

“Well the only people who have done that are you and Marci so…”

Matt goes curiously quiet, helps him into the sling they had fashioned with Claire last night and takes up Foggy’s good arm once they exit out onto the bustling sidewalk full of New York business people.  They are clumsy like this, half stumbling from Foggy’s soreness and the switch from the usual placement of Matt at his left.  It isn’t too long before they are laughing though, stumbling along and probably annoying the people forced to walk behind them as Foggy chews him out halfheartedly for his bad choices.

“I’m blind, how bad can my choices be?” 

“Bad enough Murdock, bad enough.”

Navigating the stairs of the court house is tricky even without the ensuing scuffle, but they manage well enough through security and finally into the courtroom proper.  Matt sits at Foggy’s back behind the bar, settling into his seat with a small noise that hopefully just comes across as getting ready for a long wait.  They had left early on purpose, giving them extra time should Foggy be sore.  Matt brought his pain on himself, so he knew he’d have to keep up either way.  They are still the first ones in the room either way.  He listens as Foggy runs through his notes, and his points for the witnesses they were supposed to see at the stand.  Matt tosses out a suggestion or a question here and there, but Foggy is very well prepared, and has a confidence that he finds more than I bit arousing if he's honest with himself. 

“Keep it in your pants Matty.”

Foggy can gripe all he wants, but Matt can taste a reciprocation of interest on the back of his tongue.  He stands and places a chaste kiss at the corner of his mouth, interested in deepening it for a moment before the steps on the other side of the door get too close and he finds his seat again.

“ _Good luck._ ”

Foggy, he thinks with amusement, knows wrath very well.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [ Tumblr](http://a-marvel-fueled-dumpster-fire.tumblr.com)


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